


Freedom Comes In Many Forms

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 21:35:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20015149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A new prisoner arrives at Stalag 13, bringing with him a crisis of conscience for Sergeant Wilson, and a deluge of memories that threatens to overwhelm Andrew Carter.





	Freedom Comes In Many Forms

Tim Massey, a thirty year old corporal from Green Bay, Wisconsin, had come into Stalag 13 a very sick man, that much had been obvious when he'd been handed down from the truck. Hogan had taken one good look at the man huddled on the ground, unable to get to his feet, and immediately ordered him to the Infirmary, even before the protocol of formally getting him checked in at the Kommandant's office.

Klink had initially protested the irregularity, but when the highly suspicious Kommandant had bustled over to see for himself, "just what you're trying to pull, Colonel Hogan!", he'd ceased his objections. Indeed, he'd wondered to himself if the man would last til the formalities were completed. 

"Pneumonia, and he's had it for awhile," Scotty Wilson, their medic, had pronounced grimly. 

"What can we do?" Hogan had asked. He didn't know the man, of course, but from the moment he'd come in through those gates, Massey had become Hogan's responsibility. Whatever shortcomings Colonel Robert Hogan might have, and he had more than a few, he took his responsibility to his men very seriously. (Well, as long as they didn't interfere with 'Rob's' private endeavors, but that's another story entirely.)

Scotty had sighed. "Penicillin might help, but we used the last of that a month ago. Maybe the Underground has some we can use, maybe London would authorize a drop - I don't know if it would even do any good, as far gone as he is, though."

Hogan thought long and hard - both meant sending men outside the fence, and that was risky right now, especially with Hochstetter and his goons making such a nuisance of themselves. Asking the Underground, even more prone to injuries than his own men, to share their precious antibiotics was something he didn't like to do. And London was getting more than a little pissy about the supplies he requested. Yeah, so some of the stuff was a little hard to explain as to the 'why' they needed it, but you'd think they would realize he wouldn't ask for trivialities! Sometimes this war was fought with bullets and airplanes, sometimes with stockings, chocolate and a copy of the London Times. London didn't always understand that.

It turned out the Underground didn't have any penicillin in the first place, and though London had, reluctantly, agreed to a special supply drop, penicillin along with a few other needed supplies, it was to no avail. 

After Newkirk and Carter risking their necks to go out of camp during a full moon to pick up the packages, by the time they got back, wet and shaking from an unexpected encounter first with a violent lightning storm then a German patrol, Massey had roused enough to tell Scotty Wilson that he was allergic to penicillin.

"Says he almost died from it, anaphylactic shock reaction. In his weakened condition, well . . ."

Hogan had a bitter look on his face, "might be easier than what he's going through now."

What neither of them acknowledged out loud was that the penicillin that could NOT save Massey just might save someone else, someone in dire need of that vital but so rare medical supply.

"Hi, Scotty. Can I talk to you?" Andrew Carter asked as he stuck his head in the door. "Just between us, you've gotta promise not to talk to the Colonel about this."

Andrew had been solemn, not stuttering around, but calm, serious as he sat the small bag on the table in the partitioned area Scotty Wilson laughingly called his office. As he explained, Scotty tried to understand.

"And you're saying these herbs will help? He's, well, Andrew, I don't think there's much chance of that. The penicillin was my last hope, and even that was a very slim one. Though I know you're trying to help, I don't see these helping. Do YOU really think they'll help Massey get better?" 

Scotty had tried to speak as kindly as he could. Andrew really WAS trying to help, no matter how naive his efforts might be.

Much to his surprise, Andrew hadn't seemed upset at his words, nor insulted either. He was, in fact, being very patient, Scotty realized with some surprise. It was more as if the young sergeant was an ever-so-wise ancient, trying to explain some simple fact to a student who was being uncommonly dense.

"No, sir. They won't; at least, not the way you're thinking anyhow," Carter sighed, shaking his head regretfully.

"Then why?"

"Because he's drowning inside, and I know what that feels like. Well, both ways, inside and outside, and both are really awful, Scotty. I've had pneumonia, I've seen people die from it. My FATHER died from it, pneumonia caused by the coal dust. But for him, my grandfather drove in all the way from Bullfrog, North Dakota, brought him the herbs to make it easier. He couldn't cure him, nothing could have, but he could let my father have a better death. This won't make Massey get better; nothing's going to do that now, you know that. But this - with this, he won't be as scared, as confused. It'll give him some freedom from all that." 

Scotty stared at the small bag. 

"You're saying I should kill him, that this will kill him," every bone in his body rebelling at that thought. Every fragment of his mind was horrified that anyone would suggest this, but particularly that it was Andrew Carter making the suggestion, offering the means. Though a part of his mind pondered why this seemed so appalling, yet both he and Hogan had, if only for a moment, considered administering that dose of penicillin, even knowing the result. Why the difference, that he just wasn't sure of.

Carter shook his head violently. 

"NO! Don't let yourself get confused about that. It's the lung sickness that's killing him. Is going to kill him, no matter what we do. Just, my grandfather, the medicine man, he says that helping someone isn't always about keeping Death away; that when Death is bound and determined to have someone, you can't always argue him out of it. Sometimes, though, there are ways to help make it not be so hard; ways to give Death a kinder face than he sometimes wears." 

Andrew looked into Scotty's eyes, anxious to find some understanding there, but, at least so far, only finding shock and doubt. He had to keep trying, at least enough to make Scotty get what he was trying to say. To his way of thinking, Massey deserved at least the choice.

"This, the first dose anyway, this is freedom to think, enough for HIM to decide how he wants the end to be. Enough to let him say his goodbyes, send some letters if he wants to, either way. It'll buy him about twenty-four hours. And if he decides on the other three cups, this is freedom from the panic, the fear of the water that's just gonna keep on rising no matter what."

Andrew's eyes were becoming wide with remembering, his body starting to tremble, his voice higher pitched than usual now.

"This, the way my grandfather explained it, what I saw with my father, is more like letting yourself sink into a warm bath after a hard day's work and just relaxing, drifting, letting yourself float away, instead of having someone hold your head under water til you just can't help but try to breathe, and all the water crowds in til your lungs explode and your head too. Or instead of like being in a river, but too far out to swim to shore and there's nothing to grab hold of, or being in a well with no way out and you can't tread water anymore and the rope's gone, or . . ."

Scotty saw the rising memories in Andrew Carter's eyes and laid a steadying hand on the young man's shoulders.

"Leave it with me, Andrew; let me think on it for a little," he finally said. "You go back to the barracks for now, try to get some sleep."

He watched the young man leave, Andrew turning to take one long look at the gasping Massey, propped up against the brace Scotty had put behind him, then raised far too knowing, far too sad eyes to meet Scotty's, then walk away, closing the door softly behind him.

Scotty had grown up listening to his grandfather's stories of being the only doctor in a wide-spread rural area; he knew helping didn't always end in healing. But he'd never heard his grandfather speak of this kind of helping, not exactly anyway, though there had been hints that, now, looking back, he thought might have pointed in that direction. 

{"Probably my mother's prohibition; she was uncomfortable enough with what he DID tell me. I wouldn't be surprised; he was a very kind man, but realistic and practical in his kindness. In some ways, Andrew reminds me of him, and isn't that a shock. But there's something in that unexpected mixture of innocence and wisdom, kindness and deep down practicality. I think he might have made a damned good doctor himself."}

The rest of the night was difficult, for Massey, for Andrew, and for Scotty Wilson. 

Massey, well, what could you expect? As Carter had described, pneumonia was a hard way to die, though only one of any number of hard ways to accomplish that final act. His confused mind fought with his unresponsive body, all to no avail, and his fear trapped him in a never-ending nightmare of drowning, and then of being buried alive with the air being sucked away, and back to the torment of rising water again.

Andrew? He tried to sleep, but once he got to sleep he regretted even making the attempt for the nightmares that crowded in on him, one after the other. 

Pictures of him and his mom visiting old Mrs. Kraus when she was dying, drowning from the fluids that were suffocating her; him, a small boy, scared, asking his mom "why don't they HELP her?" only to get the sad reply, "they can't; there's nothing anyone can do." Hearing the pious mutterings from the others crowded about, all about 'the will of god' and 'we are all born to suffer' and other things he just didn't understand and wanted to shout at them about, and would have, if his mom hadn't tightened her grip on his shoulder and gently guided him away.

Feelings of the power of that river where he'd falled from the outcropping of rocks into the rapid current, the scene then changing to the small stream, where the older boys from a neighboring town had cornered him, holding his head under til he thought his head was going to explode from the pressure. Remembering the well in the compound where he'd been sent to retrieve that code book, reluctant and scared in the first place, then panicked when the rope holding him had been dropped in after him to prevent discovery. KNOWING each time that he was going to die, feeling the waters closing in on him, filling his lungs.

His mutterings and whimpers had gotten louder, his breathing anguished enough that LeBeau had started to push the covers away and come see about him. 

"Never mind, Louie," Newkirk had whispered. "I'll see to 'im," and the Englishman had clambered over the side of the upper bunk to ease himself in along side the younger man. 

{"Coo! 'Asn't 'ad a spell like this in awhile!"} he thought to himself as he pulled his blanket up over the both of them, sliding one comforting arm under Andrew's head, settling him into the hollow of his shoulder, noting the brown hair was wet with sweat from the nightmares, using the sleeve of his nightshirt to wipe Andrew's face free from more of the moisture. That task completed, his other arm he settled in around Andrew's slender waist, pulling him up close, hoping the feeling of his body would bring at least some feeling of security.

His mouth right next to Andrew's ear, he whispered in the night, {"nonsense really, but it's probably not important w'at I'm nattering on about anyway,"}, some of the old fairy tales Caeide had told him all those years ago, but only the ones with some humor or kindness or gentleness or wonder - none of the frightening ones, certainly. Andrew already had enough running around in his mind to frighten him, or so it would seem. 

And, in between those old stories, he softly murmured a litany that had become a habit with him - not always out loud, mind you, in fact almost never out loud where anyone, even Andrew, could possibly hear, {"ruin my reputation, that would, sure as anything!"}, but still said inside if nowhere else. Tonight, though, the words were spoken aloud, even if barely discernable even to his own ears.

"I've got you, Andrew. I'll keep you safe. Always, I promise, I'll do my bloody best at doing that, anyway." 

And then, even softer, more to himself than to the trembling young man he held so tightly, "let go of the bad dreams, luv. There's too many nice things you could be thinking on, you know. Remember all the good times you told me about w'at you and your mum would get up to? Think on Angie and Estelle and all those bloody sheep you're wanting to go visit after the war. Think on the good things, Andrew-luv. I've got you, all right and tight."

And gradually, about the time Peter's voice had worn down to a harsh rasp, Andrew relaxed into a more natural sleep, this time with a gentle smile on his face, knowing the bad things were being being held back by the one person he could trust beyond all others.

And as for Scotty Wilson? He sat there with only the light from the one lantern to cast shadows on the wall, watching his patient, listening to those frantic gasps for air, checking the sounds from Massey's chest. In his mind he could almost visualize the fluid rising; could also visualize the scenes Andrew had described, wondering more than a little how one young man could bring such vivid pictures of water terror to life for him, wondering if he'd ever know the full story behind those visions.

By dawn, he knew. He had to give Massey the chance to decide. After all, it was a gift, in more than one way, a gift not many people got. And he knew, deep down, it was a gift that he himself would cherish, not just the deciding, but the time to think clearly, to say his goodbyes to those who mattered while his mind and voice were both clear enough to do so. To make whatever peace he felt he needed to make, with himself, with others, with his god.

And when roll call was over, he asked Andrew Carter to come to the Infirmary, to explain once again how the herbs worked - that first cup, then the remaining three.

"Andrew, tell me again how this is prepared, what to expect, what to say to him," Scotty said, running an exhausted hand through his hair.

And together they prepared the herbs, and offered the cup, and sat beside Massey's bedside while it was consumed. Scotty watched as the panic, so present in the man's face these past days, slowly faded away, and threads of clearness started appearing in his eyes.

Soon Massey was clear-headed enough to understand, to hear, to think. Whether he decided to take the next three doses, that would be his decision, but at least he had some say in how his life would end.

And so there was a little cursing at the fate that had brought him to this point. And there was a series of rather surprising conversations with a few select others, {"I could understand the chaplain, and Colonel Hogan, and Andrew as well. But Newkirk, and Schultz, and Dieter Van? Those I still don't get."} about life and death and the meaning of both, and about what, if anything, came next. And there were letters dictated, to be sent with the next Red Cross mailing. 

And Scotty, and Andrew, and a few others took turns, reading aloud or talking or listening, waiting while Massey eagerly reached for each of those next cups - each cup bringing a deeper level of peace to his dark brown eyes. And, finally, waiting til that last breath was taken.

The Kommandant had allowed them a great deal of latitude, more than most in his position probably would have, not even complaining when those few of his guards and even his secretary, Hilda, had partaken in the vigil. And, at the end, he had nodded his head, agreeing to the burial, the graveside service with words being spoken by those who felt the impulse to do so. Finally, there were only a few left standing there.

Andrew Carter and Scotty Wilson were two of those, along with Peter Newkirk, keeping close to Andrew's side, and Louis LeBeau and Sergeant Kinchloe keeping close tabs on the lot of them. Hogan had gone back to his office to fill out the required paperwork, prepare a letter for Massey's next of kin.

"Andrew, you alright, Andrew?" Newkirk asked anxiously. He'd expected some reaction, of course. Carter had been helping Scotty Wilson with Massey more than any of the others, would have gotten closer to the man who came into the camp with no friend in sight, but by the time he had departed, having several who would remember him perhaps forever.

Whatever Newkirk had been expecting, it hadn't been the deep-down peace he saw in Andrew's eyes when the younger man lifted his head from the gravesite.

"I'm fine, Peter. But I need to go talk to Scotty for awhile; I think he needs the company. Maybe you and LeBeau and Kinch could come over in an hour or so? Spend some time together?"

Newkirk nodded, "we'll do that, Andrew. If there's anything else . . ."

Andrew smiled at his best friend. Peter might not always understand stuff, even the real important stuff sometimes, but he always tried to; and even if he didn't succeed, he always tried to be there for Andrew. That's what a real friend did, after all.

"For now, that's all. And, Peter? Thanks."

Newkirk frowned, puzzled. "For w'at, Andrew?"

And the answer puzzled him even more than Carter's usual odd pronouncements. 

"For being you. For being there and for being you."

Newkirk stood there, that frown still on his face, watching as Andrew Carter went over to talk to Scotty Wilson, watched the two head to the bench outside the Infirmary to sit and continue talking.

"You know, Louie, sometimes, with Andrew, you just never know w'at 'e's thinking. Blast me if I can figure it out," he complained softly to LeBeau who had stood there in some gentle amusement at the exchange.

"Oui, I know, mon ami," LeBeau replied. {"And sometimes I wonder which one of you is the more blind. Perhaps it is you, for I believe our Andre sees you far more clearly than you see yourself. Sometimes, in fact, I think you see yourself less clearly than anyone."}


End file.
